Winds of Fate
by M. DeLorraine
Summary: "Home is much more fickle than we realize. It is not where you are, or where you are born, but where you hold your heart." A young man, expelled from his patron village, manages to find himself in Berk. Post-Film.
1. Fate

Chapter 1

Fate

I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat. The cold passed through the air, settling on everyone sitting on the benches that had just yesterday been used as pews. I had been sitting for such a period of time that I felt as though I had at last frozen to my seat. The hour had become very late, and any person who had first endeavored to stay had long-since departed.

Staring forwards, I took note of the individuals standing at the head of the small building. Three separate figures, each standing at a different level than one another, gazed downwards towards a fourth body, who stared fearlessly and calmly back.

The first of these figures, seated at the center towards the back of the room, was that of a man, whose intense glare and intimidating visage would have inspired a sense of foreboding into most people. What ever traces of hair that remained on him clung vainly towards the sides, as though patches of gray clouds that augured a coming rain had moved towards the side of his physiognomy. His thick, brown eyes begat both a feeling of age'd wisdom and that of an instinctive, primal ire.

In front of this man was a large, rectangular block of oak. In the past few hours, the small podium had seen a sharp change in its vocation. In this short course of time, it had turned from a pedestal of sermon and virtue to a platform of judgment and infamy.

Standing to the south-west of this hard-visaged magistrate, was a considerably younger man who was partaking vaingloriously of the bench meant only for the use of the now-absent sexton. He wore the clothing of a couturier, and he no doubt ranged, in terms of age, in his later thirties. He wore on his face a strange combination of a scowl and a pleased smile, as though he could not hide his utter displeasure at the small figure which was under such scrutiny beneath himself, but was contented at the result that he felt was inevitable.

The third figure, sitting across the room from the second, was that of a still younger man ,well-built and wearing a thick coat hand-stitched from a combination of leather and burlap. He breathed slowly and heavily, regarding the figure on the floor with a pure fear that had previously been unbeknownst to himself. He stood nervously, as though was preparing himself to speak about something utterly terrifying.

The final figure was that of a girl who, at the age of sixteen, was not a day older or younger than myself. She wore a flowing, gray dress that reached down to the floor, swirling gracefully wherever she walked. Her long, black, hair reached down to her shoulders, and, although I could not see them, the look in her sloe-black eyes illustrated a true courage that I, as her brother, could only hope to achieve.

Her own countenance stood in contrast to those of her accusers. Her expression was one of valor, and her body spoke the language that her voice had been forbidden from speaking: Conviction. She stood valiantly against her assailants, thrusting the rapier of her sincerity against the claymores of her opponent's accusations. Try as she might, however, they had come at such a pace that she could hardly parry every strike at her, and is was these strikes that had come through that were the most damming. "M. Larue." Said the hard-visaged man, with an air of professionalism, towards the craven man wearing burlap, "Would you please give your testimony as to what you saw on the night in question?"

"Shertainly, Monshieur." Said the apparently destitute man, making no attempt to render his _Shi'timi _accent recognizable in the French language. He spoke worriedly, as though he expected the young girl standing so near to his platform to incite some horrid hex unto him.

For all he knew, that was exactly what she was going to do.

"On the night in zhat you are ashking 'bout, I wush walkin' nea'd water when I herd a weird noishe, wisch shounded a lot lik' mumblin'. I wen'ta inveshtigate, and I shaw Mne. Authier rablin' on 'bout Monshiuer DeRoush end hish horshe." Said he. "I thought notshing of it 'til the nexht day when I heard that M. DeRoush'shes horshe had died! Sho de nexsht mornin'-"

"That's enough, M. Larue." Said the magistrate, obviously unable to bear the young man's slurred and drunken speech. "Mlle. Authier, do you have anything to say in defense of yourself according to the witness's testimony?"

There was a pause. An impossibly long pause that I was certain meant defeat. For that moment, I was completely and utterly terrified. In almost an instant, the scene before me had changed. It was no longer a battleground, the picture of a lone soldier standing against countless enemies. It had changed into a picture of that same lone figure, standing hopelessly and dejectedly upon a scaffold of ignominy, searching out into a crowd of intolerant faces for one of amiability, knowing not that one existed just behind her, while the hangman's noose coiled serpent-like about her neck.

"N-No, your honor." She said, finally, bowing her head in defeat.

With those three words, my world shattered.

"I thought not." Said the vile judge. "If no one has any objections, then I am prepared to announce a verdict. Jeanette Authier, on the fourteenth of January, in the year of our lord one thousand and twenty-five, that court has declared that, on the thirteenth of January you did fall a beast of M. Courin DeRoux, with the use of arcane powers granted to you through a pact with Satan himself." He lifted his gavel, which had begun to look very much like a long sword made of steel, and prepared to crash it down unto the podium, and hence my sister. "In terms of these, the court finds you-"

"_Arretez!"_ I shouted, leaping over the procurator fiscal, stepping out in front of Jeanette, raising my hand as if I were holding a shield to protect her from the coming blow. The small gathering at the front of the court had fallen into a tumult, all three persons attending to the affairs of the court had all at once uttered a gasp of surprise.

Then, just as easily as it had started, the clamor had ceased. A silence persisted for almost an eternity, only to be broken by a small, almost silent sniffle coming from behind me.

"M. Authier, what is the meaning of this?" Said the magistrate, unable to hide his contempt. "The case has but been closed. There is nothing left for you to do, as Mlle. Authier has been proven, beyond a reasonable doubt, guilty."

"No. She hasn't." I said, proud of my own voice for not faltering. I knew that what I had done was foolish, but I also knew that my sister was not guilty of anything that they were accusing her of. If I had thought it out, I would have known that there very little I could accomplish by interrupting the proceedings, but I had, at that time, felt such an emotion within my breast that my normally logical mind had been skewered by a need to protect Jeanette.

What I did next, however, was infinitely more foolish.

"I, Courtland Authier, by no person being forced to absolve my sins, confess to the murder of a beast of Courin DeRoux!" I said, untruthfully. "Furthermore, I confess that, two years ago to yesterday, I sold my soul to the devil for a power akin to that of a demon." Swallowing hard, I finished: "I throw myself upon the mercy of the court, pleading that they be benevolent in my own punishment."

And, for the last time that night, the courtroom fell silent.

* * *

"I'll never understand you, Courtland." Said Jeanette. "I've had sixteen years to know you, and now I'll never feel like that was enough."

"Don't worry. We'll see one another again. Heaven is merciful to those who are virtuous." I replied.

"According to the court, then heaven has left you. Or, rather, you have left heaven." She said, trying to bring about the same expression of courage she had mustered the night before. "What was the term they used? 'Fallen from the righteous path'?"

"Something like that." I replied, genially. The verdict had been unsurprisingly swift against myself, but the punishment was unexpectedly merciful. Standard punishment for witchcraft had almost always been punishable by death, but it seemed that, in my case, at least, exceptions can be made.

Gathering the rest of my provisions, I gazed towards the docks.

"You know, this'll probably be the last time I'll ever see for... quite a long time." I said, sadly.

"I know." She said, choking slightly on her words. "It's just... so hard to believe. First mother and father, and now you..." She said. Our parents had passed away only recently, victims of the plague that seemed to be sweeping across all of to world.

"Just do the one thing that you're best at." I said, looking into her kindly face.

"Euh?" She asked, genuinely confused.

"Be strong." I said. I clasped her, one final beatific embrace, before turning away, trying to hide the tears in my eyes.

"Au revoir." She said, finally.

"Au revoir." I repeated.

Moving slowly down the docks, I stared upwards towards the heavens. The sky was clear, and not a single cloud was to be seen. The wind was blowing, ever so slightly northwards, off the coast. The new fallen snow caressed the ground ever so gently. It was an agreeable morning, one that I now found myself chastising for not paying it more heed when I had the chance. The fact that I may never get the chance to see such a peaceful _Calais_ morning again caused a pang in my bosom.

At the docks now, I greeted the young man who was assigned to help me out to sea. Peering behind him, I saw the boat that was meant to take me away from my home. It was a small boat, hardly worthy of the term raft. How I was supposed to survive at sea on a vessel like that, I was unable to discern. I chose not to complain, however, being that it was preferable to being burned at the stake or drawn and quartered.

"Morning!" He said, genially, which confused me. Why he felt as though he needed to polite to someone who confessed to being a witch was beyond me, but I didn't object. His youthful face smiled towards me, and he gestured for me to step onto the raft. Putting my provisions down at the end of the dock, I stepped carefully onto the hastily fashioned boat. Then transferring the supplies, which consisted of some food, fresh water, some books and a courier dove (so that I may write home) inside a small cage.

"You've a good wind on you, and ,with luck, the currents will take you towards England." Said the young man, skillfully untying the rope which held the raft to the dock. "Best of luck. Try not to drown." He said helpfully, before heading back towards the village.

My eyes caught my sister's as I began to pull away from the dock. _I'll come home._ I tried to tell her mentally. _I promise._

Something, somewhere in my mind, registered as her thinking:

_I know._

Taking a deep breath, I moved silently through the ocean, across the boundless sea.

_(A/N: Well! That was quite a bit of fun! Not quite as long as I had hoped but... Anyway, if you took the time to read all this, thank you. You win a cookie. And, judging from the fandom that this is in, you can probably guess where this daring young man is liable to end up. 'Till next time!)_


	2. Cast Adrift

Chapter 2

Cast Adrift

I remember, in my youth, a certain moment which I still think upon often. It was a bleak autumn day, with the winds cast awry in each direction, flustering the patches of red and yellow strewn across the ground. The heavenly fields of white were not dispersed, and the lack of sunlight laid a shadow upon the paved road that led out of the market-town. My own family, like many in the Calais region, was a member of the peasantry. However, my father, in his youth, was bless'd with an mentor who imparted unto my father his extensive knowledge of the written word, and of the countless tongues that drew the boundaries of the world. My mother, alternatively, was born into a family of seamstresses, a breed of people that fashioned the finery for those of higher offices of themselves. My mother worked at her vocation to the point of mastery. Nowhere in Europe would one have the talent she possessed with materials as the exclusively Chinese grown silk, and with fabrics such as cotton.

My parents, Alexandre Authier and Sylvie Delacroix, as they were called, married each other at mutually young ages. Admittedly, and although there was a truthful and affable feeling of pleasantness betwixt them, the marriage was primarily one of convenience. Considering my mother's talent for tailoring, and the fluidity of my father's words, they had created an incredibly lucrative tailoring business. Although my family was still technically that of the peasantry, it was one of the most upstanding within all of Calais, if not all of France. This fact was not something that made them popular with either the Duke, which was slowly becoming suspicious of the designs my father might have upon his power, or the fellow _villains_, which had become envious at the success at which my father had achieved.

Thus, it was on this bleak fall day that, on an errand through market-town, I had been tasked to deliver the finery that had been commissioned of my mother. Jeanette, devoid of anything better to do, had endeavored to come with. About half-ways through the transportation, we were met by a barbarian of only four-teen years, four older than myself, clothed in the aspects of his savagery, who had found it appropriate to bar our way. I was never one to lean towards conflict, and I was nervous at his uncouthness, which must have shown plainly upon my face. I made no movements, wishing not to be struck or otherwise risk some form of harm.

Jeanette, however, had none such restrictions, and launched herself at such an angle that she was able to force the brute, who possessed a considerably larger size, upon the road. Immediately, the thug begged for pardon, which my sister would have been lax to give if not for my own protestations. With the swine departed, we began again our march towards our ultimate destination.

"Why did you do that?" I had asked, after some time.

"I didn't like him, or his attitude!" She yelled, forcefully.

"But he was four or five years your senior, double your size, and possessing considerably more strength. You could have been hurt, Jeanette." I said worriedly. "Where do you think I would I have been if you had ended up battered?"

"And if I had done nothing, where would you have ended up? Did you not see the gestures he was making towards you? He was preparing to strike you, Courtland! Had I not acted, you would have ended up more hurt than I would've." She said, calming. "Where do you think _I_ would have been had I not acted, and you hurt?"

* * *

Looking out into the vast expanses of the sea, I at last understood my sister's impulsiveness. She had done six years ago something that I only a fortnight ago had done for her. The ties between family defy all logic, and it well that they should, lest family lose true meaning. For days I had been floating, days that had swiftly steeped themselves in nights. My provisions had run low, and the craft on which I had been cast away had begun to deteriorate, which led me to wonder what I would truly kill me: The lack of food, or the ocean itself, or perhaps a third death brought about by a lack of rest, being as I had since lost the ability to sleep.

Leaning towards the side of the craft, I stared down into the endless water. The sea rippled, not resting, but I could still make out a face. Ebony hair contrasted ivory skin, and murky, brown eyes coincided with the general gloom of the water. An expression of hopelessness writ itself all across the physiognomy, and an air of terror presented itself unto it. Unable to any longer regard the terrifying face, I pulled myself up towards the top of the raft, attempting to find surcease from the non-perishable provisions. Reaching for a nondescript book, I managed again to begin reading the tales of Odysseus. I could not help but compare myself to this hero in terms of our situation. Cast adrift, longing towards home, without any guarantee that we may reach our destination. I both situations, the fates seemed to have conspired against us, driving us father away from our destinations, and farther from our hope.

But never once did Odysseus surrender to circumstance, and I knew that I had with me the one true God, the one of love and mercy, as my navigator.

Unable to continue reading, I laid myself on my back to watch the sky. The sun was shining brightly, and the familiar smell of salt filled my nostrils. I could feel the lethargic movement of the ocean as it ebbed and flowed, lulling me best it could. White birds dotted the skies, as they flew aimlessly across the heavens.

It had taken me a few moments to realize the true implication of these birds.

Being from a costal town, I heard many tales from mariners and traders from far-off lands. I remember one in particular, being from an Arabian sailor who had found himself in a storm, cast upon by the winds of chance.

"Land seemed impossibly far. I had wondered if I had perhaps enter'd the 'Endless Sea', when I say a ray of hope. Rather, I saw eight. Eight birds, flying in formation across the boundless ocean."

"But sir, how would that be a 'ray of light', as you put it?" I asked, confusedly.

"Ah, I forget I am not speaking to a sailor! Most birds will not fly very far from land. Some exceptions are made, such as with courier doves, but most will never fly far from land. After all, flying would be an equivalent to swimming for us. Whenever one sees birds, one can presume that land is close by."

The birds provided to be own ray of light. My sign from the heavens not to abandon hope. My journey, I had thought that my journey was nearly over.

In actuality, it had merely just begun.

* * *

My presumption of land was correct, though not what I had hoped. First, tendrils of white fog had settled across the placid waters, fog so thick that one could have cut it with a knife. I was worried, and prayed for reprieve, but was overjoyed at the sight of something tall in the distance. It was unrecognizable in the fog, but in my mind it was concrete proof that land was nearby.

Not one person could comprehend my disappointment, and my subsequent discouragement. I saw no land, but rather several spires, the kind that marked the watery graves of ships past. Tall, gray minarets stood overbearingly, soaring hundreds of cubits into the air. Dismay overcame, and I was sullen and distraught. Moved by the currents of providence, I genuinely thought, then, that I had finally perished, and the turrets: the markers leading those lost at sea to home, their true home in heaven.

Naught could I do, but to think upon the psalm:

_"Blessed are they that go down in ships, for they see the wonders of the Lord."_

But to my surprise and joy, the fogs lifted, just as soon as they had been laid, and I was removed from the watery plain of despair. To my further glee, I could see, in the distance, a considerable archipelago, dotted with trees and snow-capped hills. My glee was uncontainable, and I yelled out with vigor, an odd combination of gaiety and relief. The lands were approaching quickly now, and the discouragement that I had felt only previously was then gone. My joy was such that I was able to forget about the pain in my stomach from a lack of food, and the hopelessness that had for so long been forced upon me.

After what seemed like seconds, though what was likely more of around an hour, I landed on shore. It was a small beach, covered with sand, and pulled itself steeply upwards towards the resplendent majesties of lumber. Yet, for all my time spent in prayer to be delivered from the wretched craft, I found myself unable to remove myself from it. The boat had, in a sense, brought me security. It was something I was unfamiliar with, and the land so close to me, I was afraid. I knew not what lurked ahead: Beasts? Demons? Even worse, the barbaric Vikings?

But courage is a thing that whispers for us to tread where few have tread before, and courage had held me that day, for I stood, taking a tentative step off the craft.

The cool sands curved to match my shoes, and I took stock of my surroundings. The cold air passed throughout, pulling the hairs on my arms outwards. A strange smell filled the air, a strange but pleasing odor that combined the placidity of the ocean with the untamed aroma of the surrounding pine trees. Upwards, the skies had cleared, but night was falling as swiftly as a ill king on his deathbed. Birds and other creatures chattered in the distance, shocked at the disruption of the tranquility of dusk.

At that moment, I realized my somnolence was paramount. Few hours had been gained upon the raft, and with a month at sea, I realized my need for rest. I took steps up the hill, and sat in the shade of the tree. Stars began to appear in the forthcoming night's sky, leaving me to count them as I fell asleep.


	3. Port

Chapter 3

Port

Whatever it was, it tasted terrible. The flavor was repulsive, as if one had taken the most disgusting of broths, inserted the most disgusting fish to be found, and mixed it with a spoon that was equal parts wood and coriander, which was then sprinkled with _Morelle_. Instinctively, I spat the foul-tasting substance out of my mouth, showering the area with a tan mist. That area, unfortunately, included a rather large man, who seemed quite dazed to be covered with a mixture of soup and spittle. After a painfully awkward silence, he stood and cleared his throat.

Peering about, I could see that I was no longer outside, with my back against a tree, but laying on a small wooden frame, which I presumed to be some sort of bed, underneath a warm but coarse blanket of fur. The room itself was absurdly small, lit by a single candle, and leaving no room apart from the space to put the bed, and a small aisle to stand up a walk towards the door, leading me to think that the room was merely a single room in a larger building. Large, cylindrical pieces of wood marked the places where trees had been carefully lifted and placed. The scent of pine was about the air, mixed with the smell of livestock and hay, and another odor which was entirely unknown to me, but seemed premier amidst all the other identifiable scents.

The aforementioned man, who stood awkwardly in the small room, being as his cyclopean size prevented most any sort of expansive movement. He held a lighter complexion and an absurdly long moustache that, were on his head, would incite envy in Rampion herself. He wore a coir vest, and a comically large iron hat that threatened to touch the ceiling each time his head bobbed upwards. His physiognomy was contradictory, for while his rectangular face and large nose captured a sense of sternness, his slooping eyes and wide mouth portrayed a genuine amiability. I quietly hoped that the latter of the two assumptions was more correct. Of all these things, however, the most striking was the singular lack of two of his limbs, a arm and a leg, that were replaced by two metal contraptions that appeared worn but serviceable.

The man, who had gotten over the initial shock my own folly, smiled broadly, and began to speak in a tongue that I couldn't quite recognize. He said something that I presumed to be "Han aer voken!" in a tone that almost seemed to be laughing. I stared back blankly, unable to respond to such a situation which, seemed so bizarre that, were I to tell it back home in Calais, I would no doubt be labeled a madman, as well as a vagabond.

Sensing my uneasiness, the man stretched out a massive hand, and said, "Gobber!" I presumed that 'Gobber' was either the man's name or a type of exotic fish, and, believing the former to be more accurate, replied with a uneasy "Courtland," before shaking his hand.

Soon, 'Gobber' began to expound on some topic that I was unable to comprehend due to a language barrier that he likely did not know existed. Whatever topic he was getting to, it was obviously such a passionate one that I was ill at ease to interject anything that might present to him that I had no idea as to his meaning. However, finding a small pause in his speech, I interposed quickly and meekly: "_Monsieur? Je- Je ne comprends pas_."

I didn't know for certain whether or not he understood me exactly, but my meaning obviously came across, as he said something another language, which I also was unable to understand. Judging him as unable to speak French, I attempted again in the Language of the _Néerlandais, _who inhabited parts of Calais's city proper, as well as Flanders, which was east of the provincial Capital.

"_Wat van Nederlands? Spreekt u het?" _As this was to no avail, I began to wonder if we shared any common tongue, when he asked, "_Kender du nogen Dansk_?" I thought nothing of the remark at first, until I realized that it was a language I _knew_, albeit justly. "_Ja, lidt." _I replied. I knew very little Danish, as there were very few people who needed it in my hometown. However, being as the odd merchant from Jutland wasn't uncommon, I had learned the basics of the language from my father, and the vocabulary that was necessary to purchase raw materials and sell textiles. This limited my conversational topics with this man, but it was significantly better than being unable to converse altogether.

"Well, that's one problem out o' the way." He said, seeming mildly relieved. He spoke strangely, not as a regular Dane, or even as I imagined a Swede might, but his tone had a strange tint to it, although it were Gaelic or Anglo-Saxon rather than Danish. "I suppose that you're a bit wondering how ya' got 'bout in the bed 'ere."

"Yea..." I said, awkwardly, trailing off, unsure about what to say next, or even if I was capable of saying anything intelligible.

He smiled amiably. "It was a bit odd, really. There ya' were, lying with yar' back to an old tree, not movin'. Thought you were dead, they did. When they went for a look, they saw you were still breathin', tho'. Ya' didn't look ill, nor injured, so they presumed ye' were just tired, but when they tried ta' wake ya', ye' didn't come to. Some thought ya' were pricked by the same spindle as the _Dornröschen. _Brought ya' right here ta' this room, and laid ya' down. When-"

"Wait, were you the one to find me, Herr...?" I interrupted.

"Jus' call me Gobber, and no, actually, I wasn't. Haelga did."

"Haelga?" I asked.

"Yea, and she carried ye' into town as well."

At this I was surprised. I was not incredibly heavy, possessing a pitifully weak frame, but I was shocked to hear that a _woman_ had been able to carry me any distance. Shocked, that was, until I remembered Jeanette, and suddenly the idea wasn't so ludicrous.

"When was this?" I asked.

"'bout three days ago." Replied Gobber.

"Three days!" I ejaculated, sitting up straighter.

"Yea, that's why many thought it so odd that ye' wouldn't come about, though that broth seemed to do the job well enough." He smiled, as if to convey no hard feelings.

I glanced away uncomfortably. "Sorry about that..." I began.

"Oh, that wasn't nothin'!" He laughed, a deep, coarse laugh that threatened to blow out the single candle lighting the room. "Don' worry. At least it got ya' awake, didn't it?"

"What was in it, anyway?"

"Not much, just some _Linnaea_, some chicken broth, and a bit of _Vik_."

The last ingredient, _Vik_, as it was called, inspired another certain word in my mind. Perhaps it was due to the drowsiness, or just simple asininity, but I had failed to form a connection between this man's style of dress, the biome of the region, and my own liable geographical location. The implication of where I might of been was suddenly terrifying.

"Forgive me, but... Where am I?" I asked, nervously.

He smiled and, with a large gesture, said proudly, "Why, this is Berk!"

"And are you a... a..." I trailed off, unable to find the right word in Danish. "A _Norrois-homme?"_

"A what?" He asked, confused.

I sighed. The language barrier was a wall that would incite envy in Hadrian himself. "Never mind." I said, conceding. "Thank you for letting me rest here, and thank you for the... soup." He chuckled at this. As soon as I began to stand though, a look of terror crossed his face.

"That's probably not best." He said, trying to contain his worry.

"Why not?" I asked, confused.

"Well, ya'- ya've only just arrived, and you'd be unable to talk with most people. Berk is isolated from the rest o' the world, and very few people know any Danish, or any o' the other languages ye' were speakin'. It might be best for ye' to stay in bed a few days, and learn a few phrases before ya' go out into the world."

His logic seemed flawed, and it seemed unlikely that he was telling the whole truth. I hardly knew this man, and I had no idea what his designs were, if he had any, but being that he was substantially larger than myself, and seemed liable to force me back into the bed if I didn't comply, I nodded meekly and laid back down.

He seemed rather relieved, and began to turn out the door.

"All right then, I let ye' get back to sleep." He sighed, relaxed now. Turning around, he headed out the door, brushing the frame lightly with his shoulders.

Lying back on the bed, I found that I was unable to fall back asleep, and preoccupied myself by staring at the ceiling.


End file.
